I remember
by sydneyeliza
Summary: After being forced to kill her Uncle Claude, Mireille reflects on the years she spent with him.


I remember  
  
Disclaimer: I forgot to put this thing on. I don't own Noir, as much as I would like to. I envy whoever does.  
  
For years I measured everything in my life as "Before" and "After" the incident that I did not understand at all-and would not understand for many years to come. In my memory there was only playing outside with my brother and Marie, my mother's friend, and then-a great gap filled with only sounds: three gunshots, two close together and the third several minutes later. A pleading voice spoke its last utterings while a faint, haunting tune played softly in the background. I remembered nothing else for a long time, nor did I wish to remember. In truth I tried to forget, only to realize that such memories inflicted on a child's heart at such a young age never leave.  
  
I remember Uncle Claude's hand, the hand that drew me away from Corsica and into Paris. It was so big, the fingers nearly twice the length and thickness of mine, the skin rough and the lines deeply indented into his palm. It was so different from my little childish hand, still pale and white and soft as only a child's hand can be. Even when his hand hung at its full length, I would still have to reach up to touch it. And in this way, one hand clutching Uncle Claude's hand tightly, the other clutching my precious teddy bear, we crossed the water to France, away from my homeland.  
  
The seemingly black water splashed against the sides of our boat and the wind ruffled my skirt, though I said nothing. Once or twice I looked at Uncle Claude, who was so tall and strong that I thought he resembled a very strong tree. Only in his eyes was there grief and weakness-grief so powerful and gripping that even a child as young as I was could not fail to notice.  
  
Once or twice my numb mind even wondered what he was grieving for. I could feel nothing; I did not know we were coming to France until we had arrived, though he must have told me many times. The questions would come later.  
  
Only the song never left. There were no words to it, yet it reverberated around in my head until I wanted to scream with the agony of it. In my grief-although I did not understand what I was even grieving at-I could not remember what had caused the tune. By the time I stepped on French soil for the first time the song had become so loud in my ears that I could not even hear Uncle Claude's words. I was absorbed in it; my feet did not move; my hands, clutched protectively around my teddy bear-the only thing I had brought from Corsica-squeezed tighter, as if the song was inside the bear and I was trying to squeeze it out.  
  
Uncle Claude was sympathetic and did not ask. He simply picked me up in his arms and carried me to what would be my home for the next twelve years.  
  
I remember the nightmares of that first night. I had brought no nightgown, no toothbrush, nothing-and so I slept in my frilly pink dress, holding the bear close. When I lived in Corsica, I had my own bedroom and had never been afraid of the dark. Ironically after The Incident-when I had opened with my own hands the door, revealing the light inside-I became afraid of not light, but the dark. Uncle Claude had put me in my own bed, a bed much larger than my bed at home. Ordinarily this would have pleased my brother and me greatly and we would have passed countless hours jumping on it in delight and making our mother angry, but this night I was terrified. The darkness seemed to be pressing in on me and the haunting tune grew louder and louder, its notes becoming fuzzy and distorted at times, like a badly- tuned radio that someone kept fiddling with, and although I hid my head under the blanket covers, I could not stop hearing it. Sometimes I heard gunshots and faint voices mixed in, and that terrified me more. La mère had told me a story once about a man who was always hearing things and went crazy-was that happening to me? When at last I heard a voice I recognized- the voice of my mother, I pressed the blankets to my ears and screamed- screamed and screamed to drown out her voice.  
  
Uncle Claude came running into the room. By now I was a tangled mess beneath the soft knitted afghan, my bear forming an uncomfortable lump under me. It took several minutes for him to calm me down and to stop my ruthless kicking so that he could draw the blanket off my head without getting injured.  
  
"Mireiyu," he said, and added nothing more, just gathered me into his arms and held me close.  
  
"Uncle. . . Uncle Claude," I gasped out, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to keep still. He only touched my forehead lightly and then moved his hand away, saying nothing. Although his strong arms around me should have been comforting, it was quite the contrary at that moment. I despised those arms restraining me; I wanted to be free to kick and scream as I wished, to run down the halls of my home in Corsica, to prove that it had all been a nightmare; that nothing had happened. I wanted la mère to pick me up and bring me back to bed, cloaked in the warm scent of her favorite perfume.  
  
Somehow, instinctively, as only a mother knows when her child is crying miles away, I knew that my mother was dead.  
  
Uncle Claude did not say anything. Only his thumb moved, slowly stroking my hair. I looked up at him through teary eyes and could see only the dark silhouette of a man with his head bent. He stayed with me all that night offering comfort in silence, until the sun rose and my eyes slowly closed.  
  
When I woke, I was still in his arms. Gently he let me slide to the ground and waited while I rubbed my knees. When I opened my eyes again, he was squatting in front of me, a smile on his face to disguise the pain in his eyes.  
  
"Mireiyu," he said, "how would you like to go shopping?"  
  
I nodded because I could not think of anything else to say.  
  
I remember shopping in Paris. Shopping in Corsica had never been a chore; it had been a delight. My brother and I would chase each other in and out of the racks of clothing, shrieking in delight (much to la mère's despair). I had had all the dresses and accessories a child could have wanted. Strangely, after stepping outside Uncle Claude's house, my first wonder was whether or not we had money, but I was too shy to ask.  
  
People smiled at the young man leading a little girl through the streets of Paris. We bought dresses and shoes of all styles and colors and surprisingly, I never gave a thought to money after that first moment of uncertainty. Uncle Claude was laden with bags and boxes and couldn't even spare a hand for me to hold by the time we returned.  
  
The house in Paris was big and spacey, though nothing like our mansion in Corsica. Leaving Uncle Claude to deal with the packages, I wandered on my own through the various maze-like hallways.  
  
The walls were a deep red, with pretty white ridges at the floor and the ceiling. Some of the walls had paintings on them and others had photos, mostly of landscapes. I stopped frequently to examine them, although most were hung up so high that I couldn't see them clearly even if I backed up as far as I could against the opposing wall and stood on tip-toe. In one photograph, a very young Uncle Claude was sitting on a tree branch, a fishing rod in his hands. By his side stood a young blonde woman about his age whom I did not recognize.  
  
There were many rooms-offices, bedrooms, bathrooms, and I even came upon what appeared to be a small greenhouse. That would become my favorite room for years to come-as a little girl, I simply liked the presence of the colorful flowers around me. When I became older, I often did homework in there, basking in the warm sunlight. More than one of my school papers was about flowers.  
  
Uncle Claude took care of them himself when he was there, and every now and then he added new plants. I remember going "flower-shopping" with him (as I called it); it was the one thing I enjoyed above anything else during those years. Even when I was in my late teens he would come in and ask me if I wanted to go "flower-shopping" and I would immediately drop whatever was in my hands and run off with him. He would let me pick the flowers, as many as I wanted, and upon arriving home we'd head straight to the greenhouse and he would let me help him plant them. For my ninth birthday he bought me a beautiful ceramic watering pot, with roses engraved on the handle. I treasured it for many years until it shattered.  
  
Only one other room stood out clearly in my memory of that long adventure of wandering around my new home-and it was the last room I visited.  
  
It was a bedroom, not much unlike any other; the bed in the center was beautifully furnished with tasseled pillows and frilly sheets. There was a writing desk near the window; to the left of that was a row of cute little green sofas in the same shade as the pillows and bed.  
  
Even the dresser was the same pale green color, a shade I had never seen before on wooden furniture. It was low-short enough that even I could reach it. Mesmerized by the collection of perfume bottles on the surface, I wandered towards it. This had clearly been a woman's room.  
  
However, when I reached it, it was not the perfume bottles that my little fingers reached for first. It was the portrait behind it.  
  
This was a framed, professional portrait, but I noticed none of the delicate embellishing on the frame. Only the smiling people in the picture caught my attention. Roland and Odette Bouquet. Le père et la mère.  
  
My parents smiled up at me, a perfect picture of pure happiness. Yet when I saw it, visions exploded in my head. I heard gunshots-heard the dreadful tune yet again-and for the first time, heard thuds in the room. . .the thudding of bodies. And my mother's voice. . .I heard her begging someone, although I didn't know whom. Only two words came through clearly-"Onegai" and "Mireiyu", my name.  
  
Again, I did the logical thing to get her voice out of my mind. I screamed.  
  
It seems that I fainted then because when I opened my eyes again, Uncle Claude was bending over me, trying to wrench the picture frame out of my grip.  
  
"Mireiyu!" He was terrified; that was evident in his eyes. Perhaps he had thought I was dead. "Mireiyu. . . are you. . . are you okay?"  
  
"Uncle Claude." I let him take the picture frame from my hands and he looked at the photograph within it sadly. I sat up and a sprinkle of shattered glass fell onto the floor. Startled and worried that I was in for a scolding, I looked up at him with wide and frightened eyes.  
  
Uncle Claude put the picture back on the dresser-facing down, so that no one could see what the image within it was. My dress was fine, although I had stupidly been picking the glass off with my fingers and the tip of my index finger was now bleeding. Uncle Claude turned back to me, drew me up to my full height, and held me close.  
  
"Let's go try on your new clothes," he said.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Considering that Corsica was an island, we were never far from the water. My parents arranged frequent vacations to the nearby beaches whenever they could. My brother had loved the feeling of sand on his feet and would run to the water, but I was just the opposite. I preferred to sit under a colorful beach umbrella with my mother, who was generally reading or writing. It was usually our father who would be playing with us in the waves. On several occasions my brother had come up behind me and dunked me into the water, giving me a mouthful of salt water. This usually earned him a scolding from la mère, but it seemed worth it to him. It was not fun to me.  
  
Years later, people would remember the assassination of Roland and Odette Bouquet because of their daughter, Mireille, but my brother-the other Bouquet child-would fade into history.  
  
I remember the day Uncle Claude first took me to the lake.  
  
I brought my precious teddy bear, something that I had refused to let ago of despite the chunk of time that had passed since I left Corsica. Uncle Claude did not object. He took my free hand with his hand.  
  
I saw my first swan in France that day. There was something about the magnificent bird, a deafening splash of water formed by those powerful wings beating against the air that I remembered for years. I told Uncle Claude then that I wanted to be a swan so that I could be pretty and fly wherever I wanted.  
  
He laughed, but it was a sad sound. "You are already pretty as a girl, Mireiyu."  
  
But I wanted to be a swan, so I could fly away whenever I was unhappy.  
  
We came back to that lake many times afterwards, throughout the years. Only once did I ever disobey Uncle Claude-and it was at that lake that I did so. There was never a reason to disobey him; he let me do almost everything I wanted and tried so hard to make me happy in those days.  
  
It was fall, the leaves raining down around me in a swirl of sunset shades. While Uncle Claude stood leaning against a tree, pondering upon some issue unknown to me, I spotted a bridge over the stream and began to run towards it. By the time Uncle Claude noticed I was gone, I was happily running back and forth across the bridge.  
  
"Mireiyu!" he called. "Mireiyu!"  
  
I was so happy that I didn't hear him, but the crunching of leaves gave away my location anyway. Dear Uncle Claude didn't even scold me when he heard me laughing like the child I should have been. When I realized what I had done, I stopped and ran to him, ready to apologize, but he simply hugged me and laughed.  
  
"I haven't seen you so happy in a long time," he commented.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
But the shock of my parents' assassination had not worn off yet. All through the first four years I would experience strange nightmares in which I would hear gunshots and thudding of bodies, twinkling music and the anguish of a mother. Eventually I stopped calling for Uncle Claude and came to deal with it on my own.  
  
Once, when I was still very young, I asked him if we would ever go back to Corsica.  
  
He had put down his pruning shears and knelt down in front of me so that we were at eye level. In a steady voice he said, "No, Mireiyu. You'll probably stay here in Paris for the rest of your life." Seeing the seriousness in my eyes, he chose to lighten the mood and added, "That's not such a bad thing, is it? You can help me pick flowers forever."  
  
I was happy again, and didn't think about it anymore.  
  
For a long time I was afraid of the past, afraid to open the door to the past just a peep. After all, what had happened the last time I opened a door I shouldn't have? I saw something-something so horrible and tragic that I chose to block it out of my mind and seal a concrete wall against the memory. It took years of chipping at that concrete to open it up again.  
  
I never saw the assassin. I don't know if it was because of the sunlight that suddenly streamed into my eyes, or her current position in the room. But there were my parents and my brother, lying on the floor, pools of red expanding over the checkerboard-patterned floor.  
  
And there was the watch. It was the deepest memory that I had tried the hardest to block away and found the hardest to recover. It was my father's pocket-watch that had emitted that strange song. I asked him once who the two women on the cover were; he told me that I would understand when I was older.  
  
He never had a chance to explain to me.  
  
And neither did Uncle Claude.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"Uncle."  
  
Mireille stands in his greenhouse, her red and white purse in her hand. Claude Feyder eyes his niece warily, making no motion for his gun yet. Images of the young woman before him as a little girl flash through his head. Behind her, he can see her partner watching through the glass. The Japanese one.  
  
Mireille lifts her head slowly and opens her eyes. "I can't go to the lake," she says quietly, "anymore."  
  
It is Claude's turn to lower his head. With his eyes closed, he says, "You are truly Roland Bouquet's daughter."  
  
He opens his eyes slowly, a faint smile playing about his lips. In one swift motion he draws out his gun and points it at his beloved niece. Simultaneously Mireille grabs her gun from her bag. The shots are executed so perfectly that it sounds like only one gun went off.  
  
It is Mireille who crumples first, closing her eyes, though not from physical pain. Barely fifteen feet in front of her, Claude crashes to the ground, knocking over a tree he had cared tenderly for. The ceramic pot smashes on the ground and spills dirt all over the ground.  
  
Mireille hears the crash but doesn't react. Slowly, she opens her eyes, already knowing what she has done. She takes his wrist in her slender hands and feels for a pulse. There is none. Slowly she puts her gun back in her bag and goes back outside.  
  
Kirika is already waiting for her. She is not surprised.  
  
Without any sign of emotion on her face, Mireille begins to walk away, a pink petal flying free from her fingers. Kirika joins her at her side, not saying a word.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
I owe him a lot for those days. For showing me my first swan.  
  
I wish I could fly away, free in the wind. . .  
  
But instead I walk away with Kirika, who has obviously taken out the men we encountered earlier. She says nothing, and I offer no information. I know she has seen everything already.  
  
This is the first time I have ever felt such regret.  
  
Author's Note: I was thinking about the greater part of Mireille's life which is not elaborated on in the series-her years spent with Claude Feyder, her mother's brother. It took me a little under three hours to write this and throughout I kept wondering something-did her brother ever have a name in the series? It was fun writing from a child's point of view. Hope you enjoyed it! Leave me a note and tell me what you think. 


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